


And My Fury Stands Ready

by Lassroyale



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Character Study, Complete, Dark, Dark John Casey, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Possibly Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Regret, Torture, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Trauma, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassroyale/pseuds/Lassroyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Casey can't control the darkness that rises within him. Sometimes he can't curb his anger and swallow it down. Sometimes Casey just has to let it flow through his veins; especially on this day, the anniversary of one of the worst days of his life: <i>the day he crawled with a broken body and cracked, blood-smeared hands from an underground bunker in Baghdad and out into the wide, dark expanse of night.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	And My Fury Stands Ready

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Name Ain't Inigo Montoya](https://archiveofourown.org/works/89612) by [Trovia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/pseuds/Trovia). 



> I've always wanted to explore the darkness of Casey's character, to delve beneath the obvious anger on the surface and explore the layers of violence, sacrifice, and loss that have shaped who we see on the show. This story reflects a Casey who is a much darker version of himself; or rather, he's a version of himself that we might see were the trappings of comedy stripped away.

  **And My Fury Stands Ready**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**-VVV-**

 

_Casey's muscles bunch, roll and convulse; movements plucked on marionette strings, manipulated on fingers of electricity. The bed beneath him is stark, nothing but a bare rack of coiled box springs he's bound to by wrists and ankles and naked flesh. Alligator clips pinch the metal with cables wrapped in red and black rubber, their twins at the other end attached to a transformer and a jumbled mess of worn car batteries, all strong together._

 

_The corners of Casey's mouth are caked with spit and blood.  There's a vicious ache in his jaw from biting down on a wood bit that'd been shoved into his mouth, as some-1 _4,000 volts of electricity was jolted through him._  He'd bitten down violently with each spasm, the clench of his teeth gouging the wood so deeply that his gums began bleeding_ _.  Casey's mouth is foul with the taste of blood and the faint bitterness of pine sap; he charts the progress of  a_ _wood splinter digging into the soft tissue beneath his tongue._

 

_He's having a break right now, but Casey isn't thankful. His Baath torturers will be back, refreshed with nicotine fix and eager to make him sing in pitches that only electricity jolted through the body can produce._

 

_There's a noise like a groan to his left. The sound, soft and pained and somehow wet, cuts through the blurred susuruss of his thoughts. It immediately_ _makes something in Casey's chest tighten in alarm, further fraying_ _his already raw nerves. He turns his head as best he can, chin lifting, eyes carding through the shadows to locate the source of the noise._

_"Parker," he says with a grunt. His voice is mostly firm, though the barest hint of worry loiters behind the syllables._

_"Yeah," comes the response a moment later. Parker’s voice is tight, strained. Casey isn't surprised - he's heard what they've been doing to him. "Fuckin' assholes can't even offer a guy a cig." There's humor there, rolled somewhere between Parker's slurred words. Again comes the wet noise, this time on the heels of a cough._

_"Shouldn't smoke anyway," Casey mutters. His statement is met with a wheezy sort of laugh. He works the restraint on his right ankle with dogged persistence, wiggling the joint -_ close, so close. _He sucks a breath through his teeth sharply in frustration, the sound like the whistle of wind through reeds._

_Casey thinks he sees something shift and shrug in the corner of his vision. He looks, sees a spider beckoning to him with the crook of a spindly leg._ Fuck. _Fuck. He’s slipping, losing it, the corners of his mind smoothing out dangerously._

_"We need to get out of here," Casey says, more or less to hear himself talk - and to tamp down the panic that threatens to rise up and overwhelm him._

_Parker knows as well as he does that their chances of survival are quickly diminishing the longer they remain in captivity._

_"Yeah," says Parker after a moment or two. Casey doesn't like the twinge of regret he hears in his voice, nor the resignation._

_A sigh hangs in the air and for the life of him, Casey doesn't know who issued it. It could've been him. It could've been Parker. It could've been the Reaper grinning at him as it slouches in the shadows, cloaked in the comforting weight of inevitability._

_Time slides together, no way to track it except for the quickening and slowing of heartbeats and breath._

_Parker's breathing is loud and laborious and terrible with wetness as it bleeds into the corners of the stark room. The sound of it drags down Casey's spine, counting each vertebra with a husky, moist rasp. He opens his mouth to say something; anything to know that Parker is still with him. Parker beats him to it._

_"Casey," he says._

_"Yeah?"_

_"How long have we known each other?"_

_Casey thinks; about two years, although everything seems a blur since Parker entered his life. There's a presence to the man that's undeniable; it fills a room._ He _fills the mind, the nose, the mouth; chloroform with a white-toothed smile. It makes it hard to remember how life was before Parker was there._

 

_"Long enough that we've saved eachother's asses a collective of twenty-one and a half times," Casey finally replies_ _._

_Parker laughs. It sounds bad. "I still say you'll thank me one day for savin' your sorry ass from that cockerspaniel."_

_Casey merely grunts in reply but he can almost imagine Parker’s smile: Brilliant, a crescent moon in the controlled dark of the underground bunker._

_"Casey," Parker says again, and before Casey can offer anything in response, he continues. "I ain't gonna last this."_

Fear _. Casey hates the feeling but knows it well: all spies need to know it, recognize it, conquer it. Casey bites it back, but there's a roiling in his stomach he doesn't care for. "Shut up," he growls, angrily._

_Parker ignores the threat. Casey imagines that he's closed his eyes and is 'seeking his calm center', as it were. Parker speaks again after a few, long minutes of silence have lapsed between them. "We're friends, right? Good ones?" There's an uncertain curiosity laced within Parker's tone that makes something in Casey ache. He ignores the words that clamber up his throat and swallows them back down with an audible noise of discomfort._

_Yeah, good ones all right - Parker hums through Casey's veins like fine liquor, all amber smoothness and a slow, languorous burn. Casey doesn't reply; his throat is constricted. Parker seems to know his thoughts, though. He always does. It's why they make such a good team._

_"Casey."_

_"What?" The word barely passes his lips before being swallowed by the dank air._

_"If you make it outta your restraints, I want you to kill me." Parker pauses, then adds in a quiet, serious tone: "Please."_

_The door to their room opens._

_Casey smells the scent of burnt matches and urine on the hands of their Baath torturers when they shine a light in his eyes. His pupils dilate. They're satisfied. They force some water into him (need to keep him alive if they want his secrets, after all) and then shove the piece of wood back into his mouth like a horse bit, gritty with dirt and grime._

_Parker starts screaming, ragged, long, and wet._

_All Casey can do is listen._

 

**-VVV-**

 

It's a bad day all around and Casey knows he's the center of the shit storm. He feels the foulness in his blood as soon as he wakes up; he doesn't need to glance at the calendar to know the date. Black ink slashes through the square in a stark "x", marking it and marking the passage of time - another year gone by.

It's _that_ day again.

Casey feels old anger spike through him like it's something new; like it hasn't been over ten years since that day in Baghdad when he and Parker were caught and tortured. It feels fresh, immense; like it hasn't been over a decade since the day he dragged his broken body away from that underground bunker and crawled with shaking, blood-stained hands out into the wide open freedom of the starless desert night.

Eventually, his physical wounds had healed leaving nothing more in their wake than muscle-memory and a roadmap of faded scars. There were still some wounds, however, that gouged deep beneath his skin; ones that couldn't be touched or stitched or felt beneath the heat of his palms. _Those_ were the ones which now festered, seething with infection at his very apex until Casey feels sick from it. Anger rolls through him like miasma. It rends with claws from some blighted, neglected place deep within him, and shreds what little control he has.

The juice glass he's holding cracks and shatters beneath the pressure of his clenched fingers.

He arrives at Castle with bandages around his right hand.

Walker takes one look at him and looks away, reading the blackness of his mood correctly. Casey can feel the foulness of his memories bleed from his pores like toxic sweat, noxious and odious. Of course Bartowski doesn't see it, missing the fact that the tenuous modicum of self-restraint that Casey generally has in place, isn't there.

He claps a hand on Casey's back and grins, bright and cheery. _Parker half-smiles in the dark, a jester's grimace stained red. "Kill me, Casey," he whispers. His speech is shaped on nodes of pain._

"Hey buddy!" says Chuck, cheerily oblivious. "Ready for today?" Casey wants to respond scathingly, loudly even - it feels good to yell sometimes. The blackness within him expands, contracts, and grazes his ear softly.

Casey just grunts in reply and roughly shucks off Chuck's hand.

 

  **-VVV-**

 

 

 

 

_Pain blooms in a number of ways, from bursts of color felt behind the eyes pushing out from the sockets, to pain felt in razor-keen pulses vibrating through the teeth. The worst, in Casey's opinion, is the dull ache - the endless, nagging throb just this side of excruciating. It's the dull ache that'll keep one up at night. It's the dull ache that make good men mean._

_Every muscle of Casey's body aches, smarting like he'd been kicked in the stomach and a million other places. His limbs no longer belong to him, twitching on their own - loose - residual pockets of energy rupturing at random intervals. He might be drooling, but he can't tell what's blood or spit or sweat anymore._

_It's been three days, he thinks; maybe four._

_Parker’s screams have wedged themselves into every nook and crevice in his mind. Casey can't dig them out, though it's not for lack of trying. He can't stop hearing Parker's scream like an after-echo in his mind, sliding against his aching temples until Casey thinks he can taste his partner's pain. He licks his lips, tongue swollen, throat dry._

_Right now the room is deathly silent._

_Casey opens his mouth to speak. Something like a low, ragged moan slips out instead. There's a whisper of sound somewhere close - an answering chuckle that barely makes it to Casey's ears. His chest hurts suddenly and he knows he doesn't have any broken ribs._

_"Y'remember that place in Maine? In Freeport?" Parker asks._

_Casey notes how weak Parker’s voice sounds. He ignores the twinge in the slip-slide of his mind and tries to focus on the question, instead. It takes some time to form his reply. "The Falcon Inn," he says at length. It's not a question but a statement of fact. Freeport was the first place he and Parker were on assignment together._

_Casey hears a creak swim out of the darkness, and turns his head to glimpse Parker from the corner of his eye. Parker looks bad, his face nearly unrecognizable beneath a compilation of bruises and lacerations. His nose is broken, crooked permanently to the left; so very un-Parker like. Parker is almost..._ pretty _. His partner lifts his head a little, as if sensing the weight of Casey's gaze upon him._

_Parker can't see; they blinded him yesterday._

_The bandage around Parker’s eyes looks dirty. Casey can see fluid draining from beneath the rags, yellow-ish and sick as it tracks down Parker's cheeks. The smell of infection has already begun to permeate the air._

_"Wish I could've gone again," says Parker wistfully, the words very heavy as they break the silence that had once again fallen. "They have the best clam chowder I've ever had."_

_"We'll go again, just as soon as we get out of here," Casey grunts, gritting his teeth as he manages to work his restraints a bit looser. He's almost there - he'll be able to free himself soon, with any luck._

_Parker makes a sound - perhaps it's supposed to be a laugh - but it's regressed into a short, regretful sigh, instead. "No,_ we _won't." When Casey snorts, he adds, "You might, but I won't." He says it in that matter-of-fact tone of his that Casey hates, only because when Parker has a hunch about something he's generally right - eerily so. Almost always - statistically improbable - which makes Parker a bit freaky. It earned him the call sign, "Prophet"; Casey still thinks it's silly, even if it_ is _damn appropriate._

_"Shut up Parker," Casey bites out. He doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to acknowledge what he knows is the truth. Denial is infinitely easier._

_Parker isn't listening to him, though. "John," he says and Casey stiffens. 'John' is bad. When Parker calls him 'John', it's deadly serious. "I'm not..I...can't do it. I can't last...they'll crack me." Panic curves around Parker's words and Casey has to tamp down a surge of unadulterated frustration._

_"No they won't," he growls. Parker turns his head away from him and Casey gets the sense that he's gone far away from where they are. He wonders what he's seeing beneath the bandages, if he sees anything at all. So he asks. "What're you thinking about?"_

_"Clam chowder," Parker replies. There's no hint of his usual humor. "I want you to have a bowl for me when ya get outta here."_

_"We'll go have one," Casey assures again. It's mostly for himself. His voice is raspy, hoarse, and hardly soothing._

_"Best clam chowder in th'world," Parker mutters, distantly._

_A door opens. Their Baath hosts return. Casey manages to free a leg._

 

**-VVV-**

 

 

 

 

The pavement pounds beneath his dress shoes and makes Casey wish for the heavy soles of combat boots. Dress shoes slip, vibrations from the ground buzz up his legs, rattle his thoughts. He only has one thought, at least right now: _Catch the thief and smear his face into the pavement._ Every fiber of his being longs for violence.

It's just one of those days.

The shoplifter is only steps away, he'll have him in one stride, two, and -

\- Casey doesn't say a thing as he tackles the lanky kid to the ground. DVD's spill onto the asphalt as the kid issues a sort of choked scream and goes down in an almost comical flailing of arms and legs. Casey straddles the thief, knees pinning him on each side of his chest, one large hand clasped around his skinny neck.

He squeezes.

The kid makes a choking, gurgling noise that doesn't sound good at all. Casey feels all of his pent up energy roll up his spine and stretch taut between his shoulder blades. Tension leaks from the tips of his fingers, seeps from his palm. Offhandedly, Casey realizes that the kid's turning blue. He doesn't care.

Not today.

Something knocks into him from the side and Casey is pushed off-balance. The shoplifter gasps in a huge breath, and then, in all unlikeliness, starts to cry. Casey balls up his fist, intent on quieting the sobs which grate _so very badly_ on his nerves - frayed and torn and _raw_ \- when there's a hand on his arm and warm breath humming urgently against his ear.

"Casey stop! Are you crazy?"

_Bartowski_.

Casey tears his arm from Chuck's grasp effortlessly - pathetic, he _knows_ he's taught him better - and rises. The shoplifter is blubbering something on the ground and Casey doesn't care. He needs to get away from here; his temper is far too keen for this right now. He doesn’t know what will happen if he stays.

He needs to isolate himself with a bottle of scotch and the disquiet of his memories, until this day is over. He moves to go, his body jerking in the direction opposite the Buy More, when Chuck's hand is on his arm again. "Not today Bartowski," he says, low, dangerous. Any person with an iota of survival instinct would let him go. Of course, Chuck lacks any sense of survival at all and inserts himself into Casey's path.

"C'mon...you almost _killed_ that kid!" Chuck puts emphasis on the word 'killed' like it means something to Casey. When he doesn't answer right away, Chuck chews nervously on his bottom lip for a second before asking: "Wanna talk about it?" The worry coloring his voice (genuine, undaunted) reminds Casey of Parker.

He doesn't dial back his contempt as he gives Chuck a long, condescending look. Then, without thought or planning, he's got Chuck thrust up against the side of an SUV. His fingers are closed with bruising force around Chuck’s upper arms, body pressed flush against his to hold him still. "I said _not today_." Casey hears the darkness in his voice, thick as molasses as it leeches from between his teeth.

They're close, practically nose-to-nose. Casey notices that Chuck's eyes are the exact same shade of brown as Parker's were. He also notes that Chuck isn't struggling, which is strange. He's instead pliant and limp beneath his weight, and, after a moment, those brown eyes drop to stare at Casey's mouth.

Casey curses, a whole host of unacceptable thoughts crashing to the forefront of his mind with startling intensity. His voice seems to snap Chuck out of it and he raises his eyes slowly; Casey can feel his gaze drag over his skin like a physical touch.

"Casey," Chuck murmurs, his voice thick; odd with nuance that dredges up a suppressed ache in Casey's chest. His grip on Chuck's arms tighten; there will be bruises banded on his skin in five-fingered marks, tomorrow. Chuck winces beneath Casey's uncompromising, harsh embrace. "Casey," he says again, this time louder, but Casey doesn't hear him.

He hears Parker.

 

**-VVV-**

 

 

 

 

_There's a gun in Casey's hand. There are three dead guards on the floor: one bludgeoned, the other two... maimed. Casey's fingers close reflexively around the gun's grip, testing the balance and weight. It's fair, not his first choice, but it'll get the job done. That's all that matters to Casey. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other, keep going -_ live _._

_The room's secure but that’s a tenuous state at best. Casey keeps moving, fueled by pure adrenaline and a hard knot of uncompromising fear, which he won't admit to. He won't let it govern him; he never has and he won't begin now. He moves over to Parker, looks at him fully and feels his stomach drop out from under him, even empty as it is._

_They gave Parker the VIP treatment; Casey almost doesn't know at whom he's staring._

_"Casey."_

_Parker's voice is weak, so weak, and it makes Casey physically sick with implication. He makes a noise that he can't hold back, and exhaustion, perhaps desperation, makes it a terrible and broken sound. "Let me down," Parker whispers. Every syllable sounds like it's a struggle for him to form coherently._

_Casey complies, his knuckles swollen, his fingers cramped and stupid with nerves and fatigue. Eventually, he manages to remove Parker from the rack he's been strapped to. He feels light in Casey's arms or maybe it's Casey that's light-headed, as he carefully lowers his partner to the dirty floor, slick with their own blood and fluids. Casey wonders if Parker is trying to look at him, his ruined eyes turning this way and that beneath the darkness of his foul-smelling bandages. Parker's mouth falls open, his lips dry and cracked. When he speaks, his voice is a hoarse rattle._

_"Thanks, John."_

_Casey doesn't want to answer; it's difficult to think, let alone speak. His blood is pounding in his veins, every joint aches, and there's a perpetual throb that has taken residence between his temples. He answers, anyway. "You'd do the same for me," he mutters._

_Parker, somehow, manages a small twist of his lips though it seems more a grimace than a smile. "Everything hurts," he says._

_"I know the feeling."_

_"You've gotta leave me. I can't walk."_

_Casey doesn't want to believe it, but upon closer examination of Parker's injuries, he sees that the Baath sonsofbitches have severed Parker's Achilles tendon straight through. Normal walking would be impossible, perhaps forever. Casey feels a torrent of plain fury rip through him and he squeezes his eyes shut against it. He tries to get control. "Why?" he asks tightly, grinding out the word. It feels hopeless on his tongue and as dry as sawdust._

_A long moment passes between them, where all Casey can focus on is the rapid, too-fast beat of his heart. When Parker answers him, his voice is quiet with gravitas. "I told them I was your superior."_

_Casey's eyes fly open. He looks at Parker's face, dirty bandages bled through with twin spots of brownish-red. He knows that Parker's ruined eyes are turned towards him. "Why?" he asks again. It's a lie; Casey is Parker's superior and always has been._

_"You know why," Parker replies softly, before he's wracked by a coughing fit so severe, that Casey is surprised he doesn't see a lung spill out onto the floor._

_"That was goddamn_ stupid _, Finn," Casey spits, livid and grim all at once._

_Parker shifts a little in his arms, raises a hand towards Casey’s face. Most of his fingers are twisted and broken. "You must be mad; you never call me Finn unless you’re mad." He's quiet for a moment and in the distance, Casey can hear the sounds of footsteps in the hallways. He can't tell which way they’re heading. "You need to get outta here," Parker says, finally. "Go. Just kill me first."_

_"No," says Casey, stubbornly. It's the right thing to do, he knows it, but -_ "Fuck," _he swears. Casey stares at the gun in his hand, long and hard. Parker's breathing is loud in the room; each breath shudders in his lungs. Casey pulls back the slide. A bullet loads into the chamber with a sound of finality._

_"John."_

_"Finn."_

_Parker reaches up again, and Casey knows what he wants. It's something he's wanted for some time now; something that Casey just can't reciprocate. It wouldn't be proper or right; it's something that a spy didn't deserve, least of all a spy like_ him _. He shouldn't be allowed near someone like Parker, vibrant and so fucking_ alive _, it makes Casey suddenly feverish with regret. He tamps the feeling down, if just barely; a man like John Casey didn't deserve that much kindness or love._

_Casey lays his hand flush against the side of Parker's face, large against features swollen with abuse and bruised black and purple. Usually Parker has delicate, almost elfin features. Usually Parker is beautiful. He_ still is _beautiful, in Casey’s eyes; he's always thought so. He will allow himself to admit that much._

_Casey runs the pad of his thumb gently across Parker's cheek and leans forward. He presses his lips to Parker's in a soft, wretched kiss, for the first and last time._

_He draws back and presses the muzzle of the gun to Parker's temple._

_Parker lets his hand fall away from Casey's face. "Thank you," he whispers. He doesn't say what he really means, but Casey hears it anyway: _'I love you'_._

_Casey pulls the trigger and splatters Finn Parker's brains all over the filthy ground._

 

**-VVV-**

 

 

 

 

Bartowski's standing in his living room, bag of Chinese food in hand, wearing a stupid, uncertain smile that Casey wants to smack right off his face. It's like the incident in the Buy More parking lot didn't even happen, and Casey knows damn well that Walker told Chuck to stay away from him. He doesn't even know why he let him in.

Today is not a good day. It never is, no matter how much time passes.

Chuck is lingering near the table, not quite looking at him, so Casey snaps out, "Why are you here, Intersect?" Casey purposefully keeps it impersonal; maybe Chuck'll get the hint.

He doesn't. Chuck puts down the bag of food and gives Casey an almost defiant look. His eyes are too brown, pupils blown out because Casey hasn't bothered to flip on the lights. "I just thought you might want some company," he offers. Almost sounds like he means it too; Casey smirks slightly, thinking of a pup barking at a bigger, grizzled hound.

He jerks his head towards the door, turns away; he goes to the table and pours himself three fingers of scotch. He doesn't look at the liquid before knocking it back; doesn't feel it until it's burning sharp and hot in his belly. It branches through his system, a pleasant simmer that will eventually round out the jagged edges of his mind and chase the darkness (the memories) away to vague afterthoughts - until next year. "Get out," he says.

Casey pours himself another glass and knocks that one back too.

Chuck doesn't budge. He stares at Casey with an inquisitive gaze for a long time, before pushing a hand through his mess of hair. He drops his eyes after a moment, to a worn book that Casey left open on the table. "What's that?" he asks, all guileless interest and eager tone. He reaches a hand towards the book, the tips of his fingers grazing the creased, yellowish pages.

Casey snatches Chuck's wrist in a vice-like grip before he can start leafing through it. "I said _leave_ , Bartowski. I don't want your company."

Chuck makes a sound of protest but suddenly he's looking at Casey with those eyes again - Parker's eyes - and Casey has him slammed up against the nearest wall within the space of a breath. Chuck's head smacks back into the drywall with an audible noise, before Casey curls his fingers around the back of his neck and yanks Chuck's face close. "Why are you _really_ here, Bartowski?" The question is a threat, daring him to answer honestly.

Chuck's eyes drop to his mouth again, and then lower, before darting up almost guiltily. There's a sick feeling in Casey's gut; Parker used to look at him that way. If he thinks about it, he knows he's seen Chuck looking at him that way too. Suddenly, all of the anger that he's been sweating from his skin since he woke up rushes over him like a tidal wave. He couldn't give Parker what he wanted; he can't give Chuck what he wants either.

His job won't let him; this _life_ won't let him. And Casey can’t allow himself to get that close. Not again; never again.

Casey forces Chuck to stand straighter, keeping his chin tilted up awkwardly, one hand firm around his throat. He kicks Bartowski's legs apart with his foot, and is aware of Chuck's hands pushing at him.

"Casey what - "

Casey shuts him up by sucking on the side of Chuck's neck, just below his jawline, rough enough that he knows there will be a mark later. He sucks harder and as soon as he feels Chuck waver between continuing his struggle and giving in, jams his free hand down Chuck's pants.

Chuck is already half-hard and is rapidly stiffens as Casey slides his fist down the length of his cock .

Casey grunts his approval and bites down sharply on the soft skin where Chuck’s shoulder curves towards his neck; figures Bartowski would be turned on by something like this.

He pulls on Chuck's cock almost viciously, and Chuck's eyes bore into his, uncertain yet wanting, before his gaze becomes unfocused. His hands fall away to scrabble at the wall behind him as Casey keeps pumping him, cock heavy and fully hard in his hand now, the crown slick with pre-come. He nestles his lips near Chuck's ear. "You like that, Bartowski?"

Chuck doesn't answer, not really, but his mouth falls open and he moans. It's sort of an unhinged, desperate sound and it makes something in Casey twitch and flare to life.

Casey removes his hand from Chuck's throat and works at tearing off his tie, which he tosses to carelessly to one side. He rips open the collar of Chuck's white work shirt, buttons popping off and scattering, then sinks his teeth ruthlessly into the left side of his collarbone. There will be a bruise there later; it’s already forming, spreading red and vivid against Chuck's pale skin. Casey moves his mouth to the other side and gives Chuck a matching bite, and then Chuck's coming with a ragged cry that sounds like a half-sob, seeding his boxers with a few twitchy jerks of his hips.

Casey wipes his hand on Chucks shirt and steps back, letting him slide boneless down the wall and to the floor. He turns away, feels some of his tension of the day ebb at the sight of Chuck crumpled to on the ground, looking half-surprised, slightly indignant, sated and decidedly rumpled. _' Parker might've looked like that,_ thinks Casey, before hastily shoving the thought aside. He couldn't even consider it. He shouldn't.

After a moment, it seems Chuck manages to get a handle on his thoughts and he pushes himself up. He sets about putting his clothing back into some semblance of order; his breath is still pushing out of him in shaky pants. "What was that?" Chuck demands at length, his voice rough and bruised.

Casey doesn't have an answer for him - he barely knows himself. "It's what you wanted, isn't it Bartowski?" he mutters darkly, feeling his mood swing back towards black anger.

Chuck doesn't answer him and that's answer enough.

"Get out," orders Casey, a hard edge to this voice even if his tone is somewhat softer this time. Chuck, against all bets, complies. He shoots Casey an odd look, one the NSA agent can't decipher, and leaves.

Casey is left alone in his apartment with his memories and his bottle of scotch.

 

  **-VVV-**

 

 

 

 

They never speak of what happened, not even once, and if anyone questions the livid marks and bruises on Chuck's collarbone and throat the next day, he doesn't tell them who put them there. Everyone presumes Sarah and Chuck’s okay with letting them think that; he receives high-fives and base compliments from Jeff and Lester, which he accepts halfheartedly, if not guiltily.

He feels guilty for all the wrong reasons, he thinks; he feels guilty because maybe he kind of _really liked_ what had happened between him and Casey, even if he doesn’t fully understand it. Morgan is more reserved, strangely enough, but thankfully doesn't press the issue when Chuck deflects his questions.

Casey doesn't speak to Chuck about what happened. He won't.

At least not until next year.

 

(The End.)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by Trovia, who's original story can be found the linkage. The way she slides into Casey's traumatized psyche with such finesse is enviable, and HER John Casey has kinda maybe (totally) shaped my headcanon for the character.


End file.
